


Arms Outstretched

by KHansen



Series: Into the Jaskierverse [24]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Blind Jaskier | Dandelion, Bugs, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hypothermia, Into the Jaskierverse, Loosely Based on Frozen (2013), M/M, MCD technically, Mage Jaskier | Dandelion, Scared Jaskier | Dandelion, The Devil Go With All Universe, graphic depictions of gore, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: He drags his gaze up to Jaskier’s face again and sucks in a sharp breath. Jaskier’s eyes, so brilliantly blue and clear normally, are clouded by a faint mist as he looks in Geralt’s general direction, gaze aimed just barely past his face. If he weren’t a witcher, he wouldn’t notice the minute difference in the angle of Jaskier’s sightless eyes.Geralt stumbles upon a world where Jaskier is a bard turned mage in the aftermath of horrors untold.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into the Jaskierverse [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545
Comments: 11
Kudos: 103





	Arms Outstretched

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Devil Go With All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970286) by [KHansen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen). 



> Was this an excuse to write a Frozen AU within an AU? Maybe.
> 
> Thank you to [StarsInMyDamnEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes/pseuds/StarsInMyDamnEyes) and [ghostinthelibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary) for beta-ing!

It’s on a warm summer day that a swirling vortex appears atop a hill overlooking an old stone castle. The cut grass is caught up in it along with dusty earth from the dry sun overhead, and as the portal connects, it opens up a view to what looks like a roaring party. Out of the portal steps a man with white hair pulled back in a half-up style and a scar over his left eye. He has his fingers wrapped around a pendant that hangs from a delicate chain on his neck and he tucks the pendant away beneath his shirt as he looks around, pulling a xenovox from his pocket.

“Yennefer,” Geralt says into it, tapping it vaguely when there’s no response, “Yen, where am I?”

The xenovox crackles to life, Yennefer’s voice sounding muffled and muted, “Um, I’m still searching for you. Wherever you are has a lot of magical interference.”

Geralt looks around again, a frown pulling at his lips, “Looks like I’m by Ban Ard, so I can’t be in a universe  _ that _ different from our own. Not like the ones with those uhhh, telephones and shit.”

“Ban Ard could be the source of the interference. Try moving farther away, maybe a couple kilometers, I’ll keep trying to get a lock on you in the meantime.”

“Will do,” he nods and tucks the xenovox back in his pocket. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, letting his eyes slip shut as he focuses on the air of this universe. It’s almost exactly the same as the air around Ban Ard is in his home universe; the sharp scents of ozone and thunderstorms from magic filling his nose. But there’s also the scents of many more humans than his Ban Ard has, and also… He takes another deep breath, paying close attention to the human scents. Right… there! Jaskier is at Ban Ard as well, the homey scents of oak and petrichor just faintly lingering with the others.

Geralt places his hands on his hips as he tilts his head back towards the clear blue sky. He could go straight to Jaskier, his bard might be a magic user in this world if he’s at Ban Ard. But going closer to the school will make it even harder for Yen to find him, and if she can’t find him she can’t tell Ciri if he’s in trouble. He tries not to linger too much on the thoughts of Jaskier and magic either, the memory bringing him back to the steps of a castle as a silver tongued bard commanded a beast. As he’s thinking, he hears the gentle clopping of hooves on the road below him and lifts his head at the familiar gait.

He’s riding by on a horse, well the him of  _ this _ universe. Geralt can see the moment the other him catches his scent on the breeze, pulling his Roach to a halt and lifting his chin slightly. Geralt’s not sure if it would be better to get his own attention or let himself find him, but he figures he’d want to be given advance warning of what he’s about to find so he raises a hand as he starts to walk down the hill.

His counterpart from this world turns and looks up at him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously and lifting a hand to the silver sword on his back. He doesn’t draw it, a fact that Geralt is immensely thankful for, but his fingers flex on the handle as he warily watches Geralt approach. Roach tosses her head, pulling against the reins in his counterpart’s hand to get one eye on him as well.

“Hello,” Geralt calls out. His other self doesn’t answer, sitting tense and at the ready, “I’m not a doppler.”

His counterpart’s frown deepens, “What are you, then?”

“You, but from another world.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ciri can teleport through universes, correct?”

The other Geralt looks reluctant to reply as he gives a curt nod.

“I need to see her,” Geralt explains calmly, “We were separated between this world and the last and I need to get back to her so we can find Jaskier.”

The other Geralt’s brows draw together in confusion, “That doesn’t make sense.”

Geralt takes a deep breath and starts at the beginning. He’s not sure how many times he’s told this story now, explaining about Jaskier getting caught in a portal and how they’re now traveling through universes tracking him. His counterpart’s confused expression doesn’t wane but it also doesn’t worsen as he listens. Finally, he nods.

“Well, I’m not sure where Ciri is currently. She’s full-grown and leads her own life for the most part,” other Geralt looks contemplative, “Yennefer isn’t home right now either, she’s taken Tómas to Novigrad for a vacation. The nearest magic user would probably be Jaskier. I was on my way to Ban Ard anyway, maybe he can help us find her.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt raises his eyebrow, “Jaskier’s a mage in this universe?”

Other Geralt nods, “He wasn’t always. There was… there was an incident, a few years ago.”

“An incident?”

Other Geralt nudges Roach into a walk that Geralt easily keeps pace with, sticking his hands in his pockets and allowing his counterpart the time he needs to collect himself. This Geralt is younger than himself, quite a bit, too by the look of it. If this world is similar to Geralt’s own, then this Geralt looks like right around when Ciri came of age and started Witchering, as Jaskier would call it.

“A few years back, Yen found a kid that reeked of magic. We thought he was Jaskier, looked just like him: brown hair, blue eyes, soft face, stubborn as anything. It… it was technically him, in a way. Without getting too into it, we ended up finding Jaskier being experimented on by another mage, Stregobor. He wanted to see if a normal human, with no connection to chaos, could be forced to have one. Funny thing is the answer was yes, and now Jaskier is becoming a sorcerer too.”

Geralt hums, adjusting his gloves as he walks alongside Roach, “Doesn’t that scare you?”

“More than anything,” other Geralt nods once, hands flexing on the reins, “I’m worried he’s going to terrorize the other mages so much they’ll all drop out.” 

Geralt glances up and notes the small, if strained, smile and decides not to press further on that line of questioning, “Who’s Tómas?”

“Yennefer’s son.”

“Yennefer has a son?”

“Hmm, he was the child we thought was Jaskier.”

Geralt blinks in surprise, wondering what the full story there might be, but falls silent as he listens to the gravel of the road crunch underfoot and the steady gait of Roach’s hooves. The dull, twin heartbeats of himself and himself and the slightly faster equine one. The wind rustles through the trees as they pass through a light grove, the comfortable summer air not yet descending into the humid hell it becomes in the later months, still fresh with lingering spring and crisp with the drying of grasses.

He glances up at Other Geralt and is unsurprised to find curious eyes on himself. His other self clears his throat and looks forward again, a faint flush to his cheeks, “We need to have different names,” he says gruffly.

“One of us could go by ‘The White Wolf’,” Geralt teases and the other him rolls his eyes, “Oh, come now, you know Jaskier would love it.”

“A little too much, if you ask me. He doesn’t need the extra hot air.”

“A point made in fairness,” Geralt nods and then thinks for a moment, “Well, as this is your world and I am but a visitor, I can go by Eric.”

Other Geralt raises an eyebrow with a chuckle, “What, like the name we wanted before Vesemir knocked some sense into us?”

“Exactly.”

He sighs and looks up at the sky, letting his head fall back, “Jaskier would tell me to be hospitable, and Yennefer would back him up. So, no. I’ll use Eric and you can be Geralt. It’s only for a short while anyway.”

“If you’re sure. I don’t--”

“Shut up. I’m not changing my mind.”

Geralt chuckles and sticks his hands in his pockets with a pleasant nod, “Alright then,  _ Eric. _ How far is it to Ban Ard from here?”

Eric glances over at him, “You’ve never traveled there?”

“Not from this direction.”

“Hmm, only another hour or so. Don’t tell me you want to make conversation, do you?”

Geralt wanted, maybe not conversation, but at least more information about this world; however, sensing Eric’s waning patience, he wisely decides to keep his mouth shut and shakes his head.

“Good.”

They make the rest of the journey in silence and Geralt spends the time observing their surroundings, always on the lookout for danger. His mind constantly falls back to the worlds he’s traveled through, the many different versions of Jaskier he’s met; the many different versions of  _ himself _ he’s met. It’s both incredibly interesting and objectively terrifying to see just how many different ways he could have turned out. Some similar, many different, no two exactly the same.

It makes him ponder the meaning of self. What makes him, well,  _ him? _ If there are so many different versions of himself, which one is the real one? Which Geralt of Rivia is the purest in the sense that they are the most  _ Geralt? _ How can he know that he himself is even Geralt, how can he call himself that, when he can so easily shed his name for the sake of identification betwixt himself and a man similar to him? It makes something within him shrink and shrivel in on itself: the fear of a child holding the hand of a gray-haired witcher as he cries out for his mother; the screams of a man haunted by his past crying out for the one he loves as his other half is shattered into nothing.

Geralt shivers in the warm summer sun.

Then, he thinks about the Watcher. About how warped and twisted a version of his bard it is. It  _ can’t _ be naturally occurring, in what universe would the gods make such a wonderful person into such a horrible being? Stregobor was involved with the Watcher as well, and Geralt desperately tries to recall what Stregobor might have said about it, if anything at all, before all of this happened. Could this all be Geralt’s fault? Jaskier would tell him to stop always searching for a way to feel guilty about something, but he can’t help his natural inclination towards remorse and self-flagellation. It may not be Geralt’s fault that the Watcher is a form of Jaskier, but he’s certainly hurt the monster; slashed at its skin and attempted to cut it down. 

He wonders if the  _ Watcher _ even knows who it is. Does it know that it’s a bard? A viscount? Is the universe it’s from similar to Geralt’s own in which he and Jaskier traveled together? Or perhaps it’s more similar to the universes where Jaskier is a witcher, the entire world changed and yet the same. Maybe it’s nothing at all like Geralt’s own world, differing as the result of a decision made by an inconsequential person unknown to them all decades before their births. He’ll never know, not unless he can somehow ask the Watcher and converse with Jaskier inside it.

Students are bustling across the grounds of Ban Ard when they arrive, some in formal robes some without, and Eric dismounts to lead Roach over to the stables. Geralt trails a few steps behind, curious to see how this world’s Ban Ard School of Magic might differ from his own. He’s only been on the campus a handful of times, more commonly visiting Aretuza, but he’s been frequently enough to recognize that this Ban Ard has been partially rebuilt: fresh stonework on one of the old towers and along the outer wall that surrounds the grounds. Scorch marks cover the masonry that wasn’t replaced, evidence of rogue magic seared into the ancient structure.

Geralt notices Eric glance at it out of the corner of his eye, but neither say a word even as students do double- even triple -takes at them. Yes, they’re nearly identical, but surely there’s enough differences to avoid all the staring? Whispers ripple through the crowd, mages quickening their pace to avoid the witchers.

“Isn’t that Geralt of Rivia?”

“What’s he doing back here again so soon?”

“Why are there  _ two _ of him?”

“Mistress Yennefer isn’t attending today’s sessions, is she?”

Geralt raises his eyebrows, murmuring, “Come here often?”

“None of your business,” Eric grumbles, handing the reins over to the stableboy and dropping a crown into the boy’s hand, “You know the drill, Mikhail.” The boy nods and Eric leads Geralt away from the stables and towards the main keep. The whispers wane and vanish as they enter the halls, boots echoing against the high-vaulted ceilings decorated with colorful painted script and shining gold runes. Geralt’s always wondered what it says; a language older than the Conjunction is what he’s been told, older than even the Elder spoken by the Aen Seidhe, and it makes his curiosity burn, his itch for knowledge ache to be scratched. But no one alive can read it anymore.

Eric leads him up towards the living wing, where the student housing is, before pausing in front of a plain door with a stippled metal dandelion hanging on it. This can’t possibly be the room Jaskier stays in, the wood is far too boring, the lack of decorum almost alarming. The dandelion has clearly been crafted with the utmost care, the raised bumps on it in a pattern of sorts that Geralt doesn’t recognize, but before he can ask Eric has raised a hand and knocked three times and then twice more.

“One moment!”

Geralt’s heart jumps at the familiar sound of Jaskier’s voice, like it does in every single one of these worlds. It doesn’t matter that none of these have been  _ his _ Jaskier, his bard, they still sound like him and it sets the witcher’s chest aflame. His stomach will twist even as his heart will soar and it leaves him feeling off-kilter and aching; a longing like nothing he’s ever known before this whole debacle taking up residence in his throat. He’s so caught up in the whirlwind of emotions he feels every single time he hears that cadence, that timbre more familiar to him than even the chirping of chickadees in the bush, that he nearly misses the small frown that graces Eric’s face.

He doesn’t get to answer before the door unlocks and Eric opens it, pushing it inwards and stepping inside. The room is surprisingly dark, not a single candle lit nor the curtains drawn to allow the bright sun in to brighten it up. Geralt blinks a few times to adjust his vision, easily able to see in the dim light that floods in from the hall and looks around. A comfortable bed is pushed up into a corner, crates of clothing shoved beneath it and coordinated by color. A desk is on the opposite wall, the window between them covered with heavy fabric. In the corner closest to the door is a wooden tub, empty currently, and an unlit hearth with a cauldron for heating water hung in it.

Jaskier is seated at the desk, bent over a heavy tome with his head down and his fingers skirting the pages. It doesn’t look like there are any words in the book, but Geralt doesn’t speak as Eric approaches and removes his gloves. Tucked under the left glove was a golden ribbon, elegant and gleaming and tied on Eric’s wrist. Geralt’s brows shoot up to his hairline, eyes searching Jaskier’s back for even a glimpse of the bard’s own wrist to try and confirm his suspicions.

His medallion trembles for half of a second before falling still again and Jaskier straightens up, hands stilling but not turning around. His hair is longer than the Jaskier from Geralt’s world, not by much but more akin to it having been a good while since it was trimmed and tidied. Another small wave of magic pulses through the room and Jaskier jerkily turns slightly, cocking his ear towards Geralt. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice strained but forced patience injected into his words, “why the fuck are there two of you?”

Eric winces, “Ah, you, uh, picked up on that, huh?”

“Hard not to when you feel exactly the same.” Geralt’s medallion softly vibrates for a longer moment this time, making him feel like the magic dancing across his skin and making the hair of his arms stand up on end is scrutinizing him. “Actually, not quite. He feels vaguely different. Why is that?”

Eric opens and then closes his mouth, clearly looking for the correct words, so Geralt jumps in, “I’m from a different world.”

Jaskier startles, jumping to his feet as he spins around and the chair would have fallen over backwards had Eric not grabbed it just in time. Geralt is frozen in shock.

This Jaskier is scarred beyond belief, even further than any of the many witcher versions of Jaskier Geralt has met. White scars criss cross every available inch of skin: ricocheting across his cheekbones, cutting around his forearms, even zipping along his hands and fingers. It’s like lightning caught in a bottle, like the potion toxicity of a witcher but instead of blackened veins every single one of Jaskier’s were brought to the surface and bleached white as bone. They stand out starkly against his sun-kissed skin, paler than even Geralt’s own.

He drags his gaze up to Jaskier’s face again and sucks in a sharp breath. Jaskier’s eyes, so brilliantly blue and clear normally, are clouded by a faint mist as he looks in Geralt’s general direction, gaze aimed just barely past his face. If he weren’t a witcher, he wouldn’t notice the minute difference in the angle of Jaskier’s sightless eyes.

At his gasp, Jaskier’s lips pull into a deep frown, brows drawing together and arms crossing tightly as his eyes dart away and a faint flush rises to his cheeks. 

“He’s from a world like ours, but different. He told me his Ciri has been portalling them through different worlds,” Eric places his fingertips against Jaskier’s shoulder and, even though he flinches slightly, he doesn’t pull away so Eric wraps his arm around the bard. 

Jaskier gives a quiet hum of understanding, scuffing his boot on the floor for a moment and resting his hand over Eric’s on his shoulder. A matching golden ribbon is tied around Jaskier’s wrist, and Geralt’s heart  _ roars. _ He cries and screams and rages at the unfairness of it all as his face remains impassive and his lips remain silent. He stands stiffly and digs his fingers into his thighs through his pockets, fighting the urge to howl with grief at what’s been lost and has yet to be found. 

After a brief silence, Eric interrupts it, “How come you’re not in class right now? I was expecting us to sit and wait for you?”

Jaskier’s face sours again, having smoothed out slightly from the comfort of Eric’s touch. “I’ve been asked to spend my time familiarizing myself with the source material before I can join the class in advancing our knowledge of transmutation,” he mutters irritably and reaches a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes slip shut, “I’ve had a very trying few days, darling.”

Eric frowns and warily glances at Geralt before clearing his throat, “That’s… I’m sorry to hear that. That sounds unfair.”

“No, it’s completely fair, I’m really not very good at any of this magic stuff.”

“You always seem quite adept when I’m here.”

“That’s because I’m able to understand the text when you read it aloud to me, Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, “I can hardly tell what I’m reading when it’s that bloody bump language.”

“Yennefer is just down the way, maybe two hours walking, I’m sure she would be happy to help you,” Eric offers and Jaskier scoffs:

“Geralt, how am I to walk to Yennefer’s when I  _ can not see the road?” _ Geralt winces and Jaskier sighs again, rubbing his eyes, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be snapping at you. I do hope, though, that you know Yennefer is out of town with Tómas right now and that you’re not expecting  _ me _ to be able to send this other Geralt back home.”

Eric hesitates before shaking his head, “No, no, we just ah… we need to find Ciri. Our Ciri.”

“I-- that’s-- you--” Jaskier stammers, face turning pink in annoyance, “I’ve  _ just _ told you I can’t do complicated magics. And you know what’s considered a complicated piece of magic? A tracking spell or a portal.”

“You’ve done it before,” Eric is quick to try and reassure him.

“With Yennefer present! It was under her guidance that I was able to do a  _ simple _ tracking spell that only went a few kilometers off. And you’re asking me to do one that covers the entire Continent now!”

“Please, Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly, “It’s very important I speak with her.”

“Why?” Jaskier snaps, turning his attention back to him, “Why is this so important that you’re asking me to do something that I’m  _ telling _ you I can’t?”

Geralt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, “Because I love you. The you from my world. And you’re missing.” When Jaskier doesn’t speak, Geralt continues, “I would do anything to get you back, Jask, you have to understand that. I wouldn’t ask the impossible of you if I wasn’t desperate.”

The bard swallows and looks away, almost uncomfortably. He shifts his weight between his feet before shrugging Eric’s hand off of his shoulder and giving a single, curt nod, “Very well. I’ll try. But you cannot be terribly upset with me when it doesn’t work.”

“It’ll work, Jask,” Eric lets his hand fall to his side, balling it loosely into a fist before relaxing his fingers again, “I’m certain of it.”

Jaskier mutters something, too quietly even for their witcher hearing to catch, before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he retrieves a map, kneeling on the ground as he unrolls it, “Is that face-up, Geralt?”

“You know you’re allowed to look through me,” Eric reminds him gently as he grabs a quill from Jaskier’s desk, “But yes, it is.”

“I know I have your permission, but I’ve gotten into the habit of not doing that. Most people don’t like having someone in their head, who would’ve thought?” Jaskier’s voice is tinged with a bitter edge as he holds his hand out for the quill and then feels for the center of the map. He holds it on its tip and closes his eyes. 

For a very long time, nothing happens. Geralt opens his mouth to speak but Eric waves for him to remain silent, shaking his head, and he settles back again to continue waiting as his patience wanes. Finally, the tiniest of trembles begins in his medallion, slowly building from a twitch to a murmur to a quake as the chaos Jaskier commands gathers in the room. Sweat beads up on the bard’s creased forehead, and the feather quill wobbles but remains upright as he releases it.

The quill starts to skate haphazardly around the map, scratching against the parchment with a pleasant, if chaotic, rhythm. Geralt watches it dart from Nilfgaard to Zerrikania to Toussaint to Poviss to Skellige to Cintra to Kaedwen and on and on and on. It refuses to stop in any one place and the sweat is starting to drip down Jaskier’s cheek.

The quill narrows down its search. Zipping from Rivia to Sodden to Redania. It’s spiraling closer and closer and the air is nearly crackling with the chaos vibrating within it. Geralt leans forward.

The spell is shattered. The feather wavers and topples over as Jaskier sags down. He places his hands on the floor as he drags in huge gulps of air, coughing through them as they burn his throat. After a few minutes, Jaskier’s shoulders start to shake. Eric and Geralt glance at each other.

“Jaskier…”

“I told you it wouldn’t  _ work!” _ Jaskier shouts, hands balling into fists. He plants them on his knees as he shoves himself to his feet. “I fucking told you, Geralt, I’m no fucking good at this! I can hardly make the damned thing move and you asked me to search the  _ entire gods-damned Continent! _ And for what?” Jaskier starts to pace and Geralt slowly gets to his feet, Eric mirroring his actions.

“Is there a  _ time limit? _ Is there something that’s going to bear down upon us and strike us dead if we just waited a few fucking days for Yennefer to get back and do the spell? Hm?” Jaskier has his hands planted on his hips, gesturing one wildly as he paces back and forth. One two three four one two three four one two three four back and forth and back.

“Well,” Eric glances at Geralt, “is there?”

Geralt hesitates, he doesn’t necessarily want to alarm them with news of the Watcher if the beast isn’t on his tail now. “I… I just want to get back to Jaskier. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him last. I want to find him.”

“And why would you want that?” Jaskier snaps bitterly, “Trust me, it won’t be worth it.”

“Jaskier!” Eric admonishes, a pained expression on his face.

“What? I know you think it. I know you wish I could see again, that I wasn’t covered in these ugly scars. Even when we  _ fuck, _ Geralt, they’re all you fucking think about!”

“I-I- you shouldn’t be in my head then!”

Jaskier’s face wears a mean and ugly sneer, “Oh, I shouldn’t? What happened to ‘I’m welcome to look in your head whenever I want’? It’s conditional is it?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!”

“Fucking rich.”

“Jaskier, you’re being a fucking asshole.”

“ _ I’m _ being an asshole?” Jaskier does an about face, boot heels thumping solidly as he takes an angry step forward, “I’m being the asshole? From where I’m fucking standing, Geralt of Rivia, I wasn’t the one who came in and asked someone to do something they weren’t fucking comfortable with, even after they told you no!”

Eric’s eyes widen and all the fight immediately goes out of him as his face loses all color, “Jaskier, I--”

“Save it, Geralt. Go wait at Yennefer’s for her, I have work to do,” Jaskier turns and takes a few steps towards his desk when Eric reaches out, grabbing his arm.

“Jask--”

“Don’t FUCKING touch me!”

Jaskier whips around, slicing his other hand through the air. Chaos snaps and snarls as ice jumps from the floor to jut out in dangerous shards. Geralt and Eric both jump back, and Eric only narrowly avoids being impaled. The icicle pierces through his armor instead. 

Jaskier looks stricken; ashen and wide-eyed. His breaths come in stutters, sharp little inhales and jolting exhales. The air is still, crypt-like in its silence. The ice solid and needle sharp, Eric’s pauldron skewered on one frozen lancet.

“Jaskier…”

The bard’s frightened eyes snap towards Eric and he stumbles back. His heel hits the corner of his desk and he nearly falls, only just barely catching himself on the edge of it. He’s trembling as he slowly shakes his head, as though in a daze. The temperature of the air is beginning to plummet, their breaths fogging up in front of their faces as frost swirls and crackles across the floor. It crawls up the walls, desecrates the windows with the shattering of glass and devours the curtains.

“I-I-” Jaskier stammers, wrapping his arms around himself. He looks so small, so frightened, the stench of his terror souring the familiar scent of oak and petrichor and twisting it into a miasma that roils Geralt’s stomach and brings bile to touch the back of his tongue. “I- I don’t-”

Eric takes a single step forward. 

“Don’t!” Jaskier throws a hand out and Eric ducks as another spray of ice shards erupts from the bard’s palm. He snatches his hand back, cradling them against his chest as he partially turns away, “I-I’m sorry but--but don’t come cl-closer!”

Geralt glances behind them to see the ice embedded in the stone wall. It’s with a small amount of fear of his own that he turns back, just in time to see Jaskier open a portal and dart through.

“Jaskier!” Eric tries to follow but it snaps shut with a crack.

“Fuck,” Geralt exhales, “Fuck, what do we do now?”

“What do you mean what do we do now? We find him, obviously!”

“Ger-- Eric-- whatever we’re calling you; I don’t think he wants to be found. Not right now at least.”

“And what do you know?” Eric snarls, heading for the door and snatching his pauldron off of the ice, “You lost your Jaskier.” 

Geralt flinches and opens his mouth, unsure of what to say. Before he can say anything, though, Eric has slammed the door shut. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, looking around the frozen room.

Ice covers everything. Every surface, every item, it’s even crept between the bedsheets and the mattress. What the fuck is he to do now? He doesn’t have Jaskier, he doesn’t have Ciri, he doesn’t even have himself to help him. The beacon won’t be recharged for another day at least, and maybe his Jaskier  _ is _ in this world, how is he to know? Shouts and cries of alarm can be heard from outside, and Geralt frowns as he’s pulled from his brooding thoughts to go to the window.

The curtains crunch as he pushes them aside and his eyes widen in shock.

Everything has turned to ice.

It covers the rolling hills, the green trees, the gravel drive. The fountain in the courtyard is frozen in time and students are slipping and sliding, arms wrapped around themselves to keep warm as they cautiously spill out of the castle. The sky is shrouded, muted by pale, overlapping clouds that spill softly falling snow unto the earth. Down below, Geralt sees Eric rush out of the building and come to a dead stop, his black armor standing out starkly against the summer winter.

Geralt curses and spins around, stepping quickly but carefully across the ice as he exits the room and follows the bitterness of Eric’s fear. It’s strange, he has to admit, to be able to scent his own terror; to taste the soured leather on his own tongue, and faint notes of onion. Maybe Jaskier could smell how afraid Geralt was to be followed by such a young human, he thinks sardonically. There’s no time to follow that line of thought as he steps out into the courtyard, thankful that Eric is still standing there in shock.

“Eric,” Geralt approaches, stepping up beside the other him.

“It’s… I think it’s everywhere,” Eric says quietly, “I can’t smell anything but ice and snow, not even a hint of life on the breeze.”

“You know what we need to do then.”

He swallows and nods, face smoothing into a mask of indifference even as his eyes betray his worry, “We need to find Yennefer.”

“Do you know where she was going? Out of town, I mean.”

“Novigrad,” Eric says and Geralt nods. He remembers being told this earlier. 

“That’s on the other side of the Continent from us.”

“Well do you have any better ideas?” He snaps and Geralt raises his hands placatingly.

“We could head to Kaer Morhen, see if Vesemir is there and try to contact the Lodge.”

“That won’t get us Yennefer.”

Geralt shakes his head, “No, but it’ll get us a sorceress. If we’re lucky, maybe Kiera or Triss. If Eskel is there we might be able to get Ashwood; he seems to be a constant across universes as well.” At Eric’s judgemental silence and the oh-so-familiar expression of distrust on his face, Geralt says softly, “Anyone is better than no one.”

Eric takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, reluctantly acquiescing to the point, “Alright. Alright, let’s head to Kaer Morhen instead.”

“Good man,” Geralt claps him on the shoulder, “Let’s get Roach and get me a horse.”

“You can ride Jaskier’s horse,” Eric stiffly leads them towards the barns, “She’s made the trek up the Path more than a few times.”

“Has she now?”

He nods, “Trained her myself. Good enough to be a witcher’s horse, truth be told.” Eric chuckles then, just barely, under his breath, “Wouldn’t that be a sight, huh? Can’t imagine Jaskier being a witcher though.”

Geralt is uncomfortably reminded of how many alternate realities there are in which that very thing occurs. Reminded of how frequently Jaskier is put into dangerous situations, even without Geralt around. How often the bard finds himself in peril of his own design. It nags at him, wriggles under his skin and worms along his bones and he forcefully shudders. Eric, misunderstanding the twitch, nods in agreement.

“Yeah, me too. He’d probably be terrible at it.”

He thinks about telling Eric the truth. It would be so easy to open his mouth and tell Eric how wrong he is, to share this burden with another soul. He shouldn’t have to carry this alone, he thinks indignantly, he shouldn’t be on his own here in this universe. Ciri should be with him, at the very least, but in that same vein so should Yennefer.

So should Jaskier.

Geralt clenches his jaw and swallows down the words that beg to be released, just giving a vague hum in response and letting them walk in silence the rest of the way to the barns. It’s better this way. He wouldn’t wish the weight of the knowledge he’s gained on anyone. The dread he feels if he spends too long thinking about how  _ many _ universes there could possibly be.

He spoke to a professor at Oxenfurt once, a very long time ago, who had waxed upon the idea of a new universe created with every single decision made by every single person in all of time. The decision to rub one’s eye, subconscious decisions like what how long to drink from a stream for, even accidents like stepping upon a butterfly in the road. All of it would cause a fracture in time and create another universe. And then the people in those universes create more universes with their decisions and the ones in  _ those _ universes create more with theirs and--

Well.

It’s a lot to think about.

They stop in front of two stalls: one containing the fearsome beast that is Roach, who roughly demands a hand upon her nose by headbutting Eric’s shoulder, and the other--

“Dandelion?” Geralt murmurs. The palomino tosses her head with a snort, pale mane braided beautifully down her neck and left in a wavy tail at the base. Her brilliant blue eyes watch him closely as he approaches, hand extended in a peace offering.

“You’ve met?” Eric asks in surprise, “But you’ve only been here an afternoon at most.”

Geralt hums, a small and sad smile tugging at his lips, “Dandelion was Jaskier’s horse in my world, too. She passed a few years ago. Old age, don’t worry, but a source of grief all the same. We loved her, all of us did.”

Eric reaches over and runs a hand down Dandelion’s nose as Geralt pats her neck firmly. “She’s a great horse.”

Geralt nods in agreement before they tack up the horses, securing saddlebags filled with enough provisions for the multiple day journey ahead, and then set off. It grows slightly warmer the further from Ban Ard they get, but the ice doesn’t abate. It’s shrouding the earth just as solidly fifty kilometers from the epicenter of the magical event, and it’s affecting towns and people. Winter clothes had been sold for summer ones, and the thin rags the poor wear now aren’t enough to keep them warm and safe. Trees aren’t grown back large enough to be chopped for wood, the kindling thin and green and coughing up great pillars of dense black smoke in the desperate bid for a fire.

Eric tells him it was about to be Midsummer, the reason he was going to Ban Ard in the first place; he and Jaskier celebrate every year, a tradition he’s loath to break just as Geralt would hate to break his own traditions with his bard. The decorations that were being put up for the celebration are weighed down by ice: flags pulled down to the ground and laden with icicles, floral chains brittle and broken by the winds that snap and bite at their fingers. They end up spending an entire day hunting for enough pelts to have a tailor make them some winter clothing, all of it stored at their destination.

On the third day, his xenovox crackles to life and Yennefer’s voice floats out of his pocket, muffled and unintelligible until he pulls it out. “--ing still there? Have you found him? I’ve only just been able to find you again.”

“I’ve been away from Ban Ard for a while now, Yen, is everything okay?” Geralt asks with a frown, motioning for Eric to slow Roach as he pulls back on Dandelion’s reins.

“Peachy. Don’t worry about it, I got everything sorted. Have you found Jaskier? Is he in that universe?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t found any magic users who can help me.”

“Well, what  _ have _ you been doing, Geralt?” She sounds exasperated and a spark of irritation rises in his chest.

“I’ve  _ been _ looking for Jaskier, Yennefer. And I’m  _ still _ looking for him. We’re trying to find this universe’s Jaskier.”

“Why, what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a mage in this universe, but… well, something happened and he’s run off. We’re trying to find him by going to Kaer Morhen to get a hold of the Lodge.”

Yennefer mumbles to herself and Geralt can’t make out what she’s saying before she’s suddenly speaking up again, “Alright, I’ll get in contact with myself. She-- we-- whatever, will be catching you soon. What did you mean by ‘we’?”

“I’m with this universe’s version of myself.”

“Is he handsomer than you? Maybe we can take him back instead,” she teases and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Goodbye, Yennefer.”

“Farewell, Geralt. A me will be with you soon.” With that the xenovox goes silent and he tucks it away in his pocket again. Eric is watching with burning curiosity in his eyes, head tilted just slightly. Geralt wonders if it’s a mannerism Jaskier picks up from himself or one that he picked up from Jaskier, as it seems to be a constant across most universes as well, but they both do it.

“So Yennefer will be portaling to us, I presume?”

Geralt hums in confirmation, “We ought to stop. Sun’s low in the sky anyhow.”

With the knowledge that this world’s Yennefer will, hopefully, be arriving soon to help them, they make camp nearby, finding a nice clearing in the woods and cleaning it out of snow and ice as best they can. Eric sets off to find some game while Geralt sets up camp, building a roaring fire that should last them all night and setting out their bedrolls. He doesn’t think too hard about the fact that the bedroll he’s using is technically Jaskier’s. It isn’t long before they have some pheasant roasting over the fire, the flames greedily sucking the fat from the meat as it drips onto the scorched logs and sizzles tantalizingly.

Geralt is leaned against a log he dragged over to shield them against the wind chill while Eric is crouched by the fire, poking at the logs and trying to rearrange them with little result. It’s clearly busy work and Geralt delicately, or well, as delicately as a witcher can, clears his throat. Eric sits back on his heels and looks over his shoulder at Geralt questioningly, raising a single pale eyebrow.

Geralt nods his head at Eric’s left wrist, “So you’re… handfasted?”

Eric glances down at his own arm, pulling down the cuff of his glove to look at the ribbon. It’s in pristine condition, and Geralt’s not sure if that’s because there’s an enchantment on it or just Eric’s own diligence to keep it clean and nice. The ribbon glows a golden orange in the flickering firelight, gleaming as he angles his wrist from one side to the other and watches the light dance across it.

Finally, Eric says, “Yeah.”

“What was that like?”

“It was…” Eric settles back on his haunches, resting his elbows on his knees and wrapping his fingers around the ribbon. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, looking into the fire as he speaks, “it was scary. At first. I know Jaskier won’t die before me, if he dies at all anymore, and that’s a whole other source of fear for me; that I’ll die before him and he’ll be left alone to live an endless eternity…” he trails off thoughtfully before shaking his head and clearing his throat. “Why do you ask?”

Geralt can feel his face growing warm and he resolutely doesn’t look at Eric as he murmurs, “no reason.”

His double looks at him flatly, lips thinned into an unimpressed line.

“I- I love him, okay?” He’s not sure why he’s feeling so defensive about it, clearly this version of him does too if he  _ married _ Jaskier, “And I was just wondering what it’s like to be bound to him like that.”

Eric looks heavenward, licking his lips as he sighs, “It’s… the best and worst thing to have ever happened to me.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s,” Eric blows a harsh breath out through his nose as he searches for the right words, “he’s your best friend and you love him more than life itself--” Geralt nods in agreement. “--but he’s infuriating at times and just so  _ annoying _ but you can’t imagine him not being around.” He shifts, poking at the fire again, “I told you that there was an… incident. Involving Jaskier and experimentation. It’s why he’s-- well, blind. Why he’s scarred like that. And it causes some…” Eric flexes his wrist holding the stick as he casts about for the word he needs, “difficulties.”

“Difficulties?”

“It took us a while to build his confidence enough that he felt like he could even leave Kaer Morhen, let alone go on the Path or to Ban Ard. He didn’t think… he didn’t think he deserved me, to be my friend or companion. We weren’t quite ‘together’ yet when this all happened, too. He knew how I felt, but he was still deeply upset with me over the whole mountain incident. He um, was on his way to Kaer Morhen when Stregobor captured him.”

Geralt crosses his arms and lowers his head in respect as he says quietly, “That must have been hard.”

“The whole ordeal was… well, it was probably one of the worst things I’ve seen,” Eric nods somberly, “but the way Jaskier was… he didn’t trust us half the time at first, kept thinking we were illusions because he doesn’t know when he lost his sight. He was kept in a dark and silent room except when food was given to him or Stregobor conducted his experiments. He hasn’t told us very much about what Stregobor would… but I know he made Jaskier see illusions. Terrible things. He still wakes up screaming sometimes.”

“I can see how that’s difficult,” Geralt murmurs.

Eric hums, “Lashes out sometimes, but never with his magic. Not like this time. Something else had to have been going on, too.”

“He did say he’s been having a rough go of it.”

They fall into silence as they watch the pheasants roast, skin crackling and the rich aroma of cooking fowl in the air. Eric turns them over on the spit and Geralt opens his mouth again, “What was the ceremony like?”

Eric doesn’t answer immediately, mulling over the questions for a long time. “It was the best day of my life,” is all he says. And Geralt understands.

Geralt is rudely awoken in the morning with a snowball to the face, spluttering and jumping to his feet as he reaches for his swords with ice and melting snow dripping off his nose. A child falls to the ground laughing and Geralt lowers his hand again as he scowls. Yennefer stands by Eric, the both of them grinning as they watch him glower and wipe the remnants of the attack from his face. 

“Unnecessary,” Geralt grumbles and Yennefer throws her head back, cackling. Her black dress is stark against the ice and snow and the boy gets to his feet again, taking her hand immediately. He has dark brown hair, almost the same color as Jaskier’s, and bright blue eyes but his skin is tinged green and instead of ears are flared fins. Sharp teeth are on display in the bright grin the boy is wearing. This must be Tómas, the boy Eric told him about.

“Care to tell me why I was contacted by a version of myself from an alternate universe who told me your idiot ass was in trouble again, Geralt?” She’s looking at Geralt but turns her head towards Eric, denoting the direction of her question.

Eric’s smile slides off his face as he goes back to his usual brooding. Geralt has to admit that he didn’t realize just  _ how much _ he broods, and he’s going to have to apologize to Jaskier for all the nasty jokes he’d make in response to the bard’s teasing about the subject. “We need to find Jaskier.”

“What’s he done now?”

“Look around you,” Geralt gestures vaguely and Yennefer’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.

“He did this? But it covers the entire Continent. The Lodge is in a tizzy.”

“He was… experiencing strong emotion.”

She hums thoughtfully, “Well, that can make one’s connection to Chaos stronger and power your spells. Acts as an accelerant, like throwing pine needles on a fire.”

Geralt hums, “Can you fix it?”

She pauses and holds her hands out from her body slightly, closing her eyes to focus. After a few moments, she shakes her head, “No, his curse is too resistant to magic that isn’t his own. He’d have to undo it himself or find something stronger.”

“Can you find him?” Eric asks, his voice tight. Yennefer looks over at him, holding eye contact for a time before she nods.

“Certainly. It’ll cost you, though.”

“Yennefer,” Eric frowns but she holds up a hand.

“Nothing much, just a story.”

“Do we really have time for storytelling?”

“If you want me to find him, you do.”

Eric sighs and crosses his arms, “Fine, what do you want to know.”

Violet eyes turn to Geralt, curiosity burning in them, “I want to know everything about this universe hopping you’ve been up to.”

Geralt nods once, “How so? The logistics of it? The specifics? The--”

“I want to know everything. About each of the worlds you’ve visited, about the alternate versions of people there. We’ve the time, and I know what your story-telling abilities are like, Geralt,” she pulls a rolle map from inside her sleeve and lays it out upon a stump nearby, “So, tell me about this.”

He clears his throat and nods again as he sits down on a log nearby, taking a deep breath and beginning to weave the tale. He tells her about the first world: where Jaskier was a witcher like himself and Renfri’s adoptive father. He tells her about the second: in which Jaskier was the god of the Pankratz River. He tries his best to spin them into tales, the way Jaskier would, as he describes the fourth and fifth worlds: Jaskier appearing as a witcher once again and in a relationship with  _ Lambert _ of all people in the fourth and the way they had to fight back against the Watcher in a world with no magic at all in the fifth.

Then there was the world in which everyone had forgotten Jaskier, who called himself Hyacinth instead, and could apparently raise himself from the dead; followed by a short period of time in a world in which  _ Geralt _ was the dead one. He carefully doesn’t mention the discussion he had with Jaskier in that universe, the thought of being just a hallucination to the bard putting him on edge. Then came his and Ciri’s first separation, and he found a Jaskier being tortured up to and beyond his breaking point; he tells Yennefer about trying to save this Jaskier, but being thwarted and sent on his way. 

The next world, he reunited with Ciri once more, and this was another world like the magic-less one. Far in the future, with things like  _ guns _ and  _ trains _ and the odd attire Jaskier herself wore. Yennefer seems amused by the possibility of other genders of Jaskier existing, and even wonders aloud if other gendered versions of herself exist as well. Geralt smiles slightly before pushing on, remarking on the fact that the very next universe held another witcher version of Jaskier. This one from the School of the Bear. He thinks he spends a normal amount of time describing how this made Jaskier different, but judging by the raised eyebrow Yennefer sends him, he isn’t particularly smooth about hiding the attraction he had to that version.

Then there was the world where Geralt was missing, presumed dead once more, and Geralt glosses over his conversations with the Jaskier of that world, not wanting to accidentally spill more secrets than he can keep and unwilling to talk about the Watcher. There was the world that was short and sweet, he and Ciri just getting a few drinks with Jaskier and his friends and enjoying pleasant conversation before going on their way. There was the incredibly odd world in which Jaskier and Geralt were brothers, and he finds his face burning at the affronted and horrified expression Jaskier wore when Geralt informed him of their more carnal relationship in other universes.

His voice is growing hoarse and his mind spins as he tries to keep all the places he’s visited straight in his head, definitively leaving many of them out to be told as tales some other time, though maybe not to this version of Yennefer. He finishes his long story by telling her of yet another witcher version of Jaskier, this one a Manticore, who had a close relationship with Tissaia and was a human for 40 years; and finally of the most recent notable world being that with the silver-tongued Jaskier, able to wield power and hold command over his land with a quirk of his head and the twist of his lips. 

He still neglects to inform her of the Watcher, hoping beyond all hopes that he’ll be gone before it has the chance to arrive; but there’s been no rhyme nor reason to the frequency at which it appears, and he finds himself feeling remorse for almost wishing it’s followed Ciri to whatever world she’s in at this moment. It’s naive of him, he knows, to just pray to the turned cheeks of uncaring gods that the Watcher won’t descend upon them; but  _ gods, _ if he doesn’t just want a break. Almost every single world recently, with increased frequency and intensity, the Watcher appears. In every single one of those worlds, he alerted its inhabitants to the existence of the Watcher and it came with destruction in its footsteps, as though called by the utterance of its name. So he should tell them, he should warn them, but he finds himself unable to open his mouth and force the words past his lips; continuing to pray silently that he will be gone sooner than the Watcher can find him.

Yennefer’s questions wane as her concentration waxes, focusing her attentions on the spell until the thin dowsing rod she’s balanced upon the map is standing on end over a familiar mountain range.

“He’s in the Mahakam Mountains,” Yennefer says definitively. Eric opens his mouth to speak when she glares at him, “I’m  _ aware _ that’s a two week’s ride from here, Geralt. I was going to portal the two of you there. The spell alleges that he’s on Mount Carbon.”

“Where on Mount Carbon?” Geralt asks, standing up from the log he had been perched on and walking closer to peer at the map. Yennefer had used a shining silver rod instead of a quill like Jaskier had, and he recalls his own Yen telling him that silver conducts chaos the best out of any materials; most likely it was used to make the spell more precise and Geralt nods his approval.

“It’s unclear. I’ll portal you about halfway up; if I’m accurate enough, which I always am, he’s probably closer to the top. Here’s a beacon to alert me to needing a portal back,” she hands Geralt a glass sphere. It’s fogged up with a white swirling mist.

Eric huffs, “If you come with us then can’t you track him again? Follow his magic or something?”

“I could... if this entire meteorological event wasn’t being caused by  _ his _ magic and if I didn’t have my darling son with me,” she narrows her eyes at him and sniffs, “You wouldn’t want me to put a  _ child _ in harm’s way, now would you, Geralt?”

Tómas giggles as Eric grinds his teeth together, an angry glower on his face as they stare each other down. Finally, Eric concedes, his eyes sliding away as he grumbles, “No. I wouldn’t want you to put a child in harm’s way.”

“That’s what I thought.” She stands up and adjusts her gloves delicately before shaking her hands out, “Ready, boys?” Eric had packed up the camp with Tómas’s help while Geralt told Yennefer about his endeavors and she performed the spell, so they share a glance and a nod. “Good.”

With a wave of her hands, a portal opens up that pushes an enormous flurry of snow through it and into the clearing, the wind coming out of the portal kicking up ice and debris as it whistles through the trees and scatters any animals hiding in the brush. Eric goes through the portal without hesitation, but Yennefer holds her hand out to Geralt to stop him.

“Geralt,” she looks over at him, reaching into her pocket and pulling out what looks like the pommel of a sword with a curved guard on it. It’s silver and gleams in the blue light of the frozen sun.

“What is it?”

“It’s a shield. It repels magic, reflects it away from the user.”

Geralt frowns, certain of the answer but asking anyway, “What is this for?”

Yennefer gives him an unimpressed look but it changes into a softer one as she glances at the portal, “This Jaskier isn’t like yours. I’ve peeked into your head and seen the man you’re familiar with, and the many others you’ve met. Our Jaskier is similar, but not the same. He’s more easily frightened, and becomes like a wild animal when scared. It’s what kept him safe, and habits learned in life threatening situations aren’t easily abandoned.”

“What are you saying?”

“This is in case he lashes out again. It’ll protect you.”

“But could harm him.”

“A necessary risk.”

Geralt shifts his weight uneasily, hesitantly taking the shield and slipping it into his pocket. He doesn’t feel good about having it, but he remembers Ciri telling him about the Jaskier who tried to kill her, who  _ would have _ killed her had the Geralt of that world not stopped him, and he feels more secure in hanging on to it, just in case.

Better to be safe than sorry.

They step through the portal into the blizzard, the gale howling in their ears and throwing their hair around their faces. Geralt removes his leather tie to twist his hair up into a bun, hoping it’ll stay out of his eyes that way, and sees Eric doing the same before they embark into the darkness. The portal closes behind them. They’re alone on the mountain.

The snowfall is dense and thick in their eyes, a wall of white that replenishes itself as quickly as they can blink it away. The cold sinks through their layers of clothing, wrapping its icy tendrils around their bodies in a vice and settling deep in their bones; it slows their movement, drags at their steps that crunch through the snow underfoot and pull at their joints that creak in protest of the subzero temperatures. Geralt shields his eyes with one gloved hand, squinting through the storm. Something glimmers up ahead, and he blinks hard as he shakes his head to clear it; he has to be sure of what he sees.

When he opens his eyes again the light is still there so he shouts to Eric to signal his attention as his heart leaps into his throat; have they found him? Have they found Jaskier? Eric peers through the snow as well and nods, hope glittering in his golden eyes, and they pick up the pace, trudging faster towards their salvation. It’s found in a single lantern hung from an exterior hook on a small cabin, the wood looking older than the mountain itself. It’s graying and rotten in places, the roof sagging with age and the single window cracked and breaking. The interior looks dark, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s empty. The light is meaningless to a man who lives in darkness.

Eric raises a hand to pound on the door before hesitating, glancing over at Geralt and wearing an expression that Geralt himself is certain he has as well. Would Jaskier even answer the door were they to knock? He had been terrified the last time they saw him; not of them, but of himself, of the carnage he could cause and the chaos and destruction he  _ did _ cause by losing control. Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if, were this Jaskier anything like his own, he’d keep himself away if he thought he could be a source of Geralt’s torment.

It’s happened, only once before, upon another mountain.

Geralt nods his head at the door handle and Eric reaches for it, unlatching the door and shoving it open with his shoulder to break the seal of ice and sleet along the doorframe. He stumbles inside, Geralt following close behind and closing the door to keep the cold out. Jaskier had left with no coat, no winter clothing of any kind; he’d been dressed in a light shirt and summer trousers, with no expectations to even  _ need _ to be keeping warm. 

Geralt blinks hard to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness, not even a fire to warm the freezing cabin, which Eric rectifies in an instant with a carefully aimed Igni a the pile of logs and kindling in the small hearth. The fire blazes to life and casts long flickering shadows across the walls, orange firelight illuminating the corners. It’s a single room cabin, with a table that’s older than sin and a chair that looks like if you even touch it it’ll shatter into a million splinters. Upon the floor is a bedroll, open but untouched, the blankets too pristine to have been used and made again by Jaskier.

But the cabin isn’t abandoned, it wasn’t empty prior to Geralt and Eric’s arrival. No, in the corner furthest from them, with his knees to his chest and his head buried in his arms, is Jaskier. He looks a little worse for wear, clothing filthy and rumpled, hair askew, thin scratches upon his arms as though he pushed through a forest. But his fingertips are blue and his body trembles as he’s wracked with shivers from the cold. Just because he can create it does not mean he’s immune to it.

“Jaskier,” Eric breathes in relief, instantly shedding his heavy coat and hurrying over to wrap it around Jaskier’s shoulders. The bard makes no indication that he’s even heard Eric, remaining silent and shaking. Eric frowns and gently tries to shift Jaskier to place his fingers against Jaskier’s forehead, and the bard slumps against him now that his tight and carefully balanced pose has been unraveled.

Eric casts an alarmed glance at Geralt, who shrugs and moves closer. Jaskier’s lips are also purple, the tip of his nose bright red and his cheeks flushed while his skin is pale and ashen. His eyes are open, but only just barely, and his expression is dazed as he blinks slowly at the end of each deep exhale.

“Is he asleep?” Geralt asks warily. He’s never seen Jaskier sleep with his eyes open before, not in any universe prior to this one. Eric shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. He’s colder than usual,” Eric both looks and sounds troubled, a novelty for any Geralt. He gently cradles Jaskier to his chest and stands up, nodding his head at the bedroll, “Can you get that?”

Geralt is quick to move, shifting it closer to the fire and pulling back the blankets so the roll warms. A low moan escapes Jaskier’s blue lips and both witchers sigh in relief. Eric carefully kneels back down, laying Jaskier on the bedroll and curling up behind him as he pulls the blankets over the both of them. Geralt knows that it’s to provide extra warmth, and is particularly aware of the things Eric told him the night before. Could this be something he may have with his Jaskier? 

His eyes fall on the golden ribbons, side by side with Eric’s arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist as it is, and he settles onto the floor next to the hearth, deep in thought. Would marriage be something that he would want? Clearly other versions of him have wanted it, have  _ got _ it, but is it something that he would want. Would he want to be bound to one person for the rest of their lives? If it’s with Jaskier, then it would only be for a finite amount of time, anticipating that Geralt outlives his bard, which is a thought he doesn’t want to dwell on. It seems he’s doomed to, though, as his mind wanders while he gazes blankly upon the handfasted couple and their ribbons.

What would he do were he to lose Jaskier? Geralt has laughed more in the forty years he’s traveled with Jaskier than he has in all 148 years of his life. He’s never felt such joy to build his little family, create a life with another person; never trusted anyone so implicitly who wasn’t also a witcher. He tells Jaskier everything, and Jaskier tells him everything. Or, at least, that’s what Geralt assumes. He’s no sorcerer, he can’t read other people’s minds. But he trusts Jaskier when the bard tells him that Geralt knows more about him than anyone else on the Continent; and it’s a nice feeling, to be trusted in that way, but it also makes his dilemma all the more painful. 

Jaskier is so vocal about the things and people he loves, and sure he’s said that he loves Geralt before, but surely he means it in a friendly way. Geralt loves Yennefer, but they’ve discovered that they don’t work together romantically and thus are just friends. Geralt loves Ciri, she’s his daughter and he’d do anything for her. Geralt loves Jaskier, and he recognizes this now: he loves Jaskier’s smile, the way he always tries to cheer Geralt up, even when Jaskier is being a bitch because he woke up damp from morning dew. Geralt loves it all, loves everything about him, and thinking about it throbs and aches inside him; like this love has snatched all the air from his lungs and left diamonds in their place, sharp and unyielding but precious all the same.

There’s a quiet moan and Geralt’s eyes snap back to Jaskier, who has started shivering in Eric’s embrace-- teeth chattering and knees knocking dully. Eric sighs quietly in relief and runs his fingers through the bard’s thick hair, gently wiggling through any tangles he may get snagged on, as he glances up and locks eyes with Geralt. After a few moments of silent conversation-- via minute twitches of their brows and increasingly deep frowns-- Geralt gets up to throw more wood on the fire from the small pile in the corner of the room while Eric pulls Jaskier closer with a self-satisfied smirk that he hides in the bard’s hair. 

“G-Geralt?” Jaskier breathes, shivering harder and curling up into a tighter ball. He hasn’t opened his eyes; but, then again, he doesn’t have to.

“I’m here,” Eric whispers, pressing gentle kisses to cold skin, “I’m right here, Jask.”

Geralt feels his medallion wiggle with the soft pulse of magic and he watches Jaskier stiffen, “The other you is here, too.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I helped him find you,” Geralt says as he settles down against the wall again. The wind outside has calmed in the time they’ve been sitting there, the weather relaxed to a gentle snowfall that brushes against the cracked window with tender caresses. “You gave us a scare.”

Jaskier slumps back into Eric’s embrace, turning his face to the bedroll beneath them to hide the light flush of shame that pinks his cheeks, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you were scared,” Eric runs his hand through Jaskier’s hair again. The motion is so tender that Geralt has to look away lest the longing in his heart become painted on his face. “You didn’t mean to.”

Jaskier takes a shaking breath, “How did you find me? It’s only been a few days.”

“Yennefer helped us.”

“Yennefer did?” He pushes himself up, despite the spasming of his arms, to twist around and face Eric, “Well, then why wouldn’t you have her summon Ciri for you? To send the other you back to his proper place?”

Geralt exchanges a glance with Eric and clears his throat, “Finding you was more important.”

“How could I be more important than a  _ universe altering event _ like your arrival?”

“Jaskier,” Eric says gently, “The entire Continent is engulfed in a winter that  _ you’ve _ created.”

“W-what?” Jaskier turns as white as the snow that swirls against the broken window, slipping in through the cracked glass in little flurries and cold drafts that huff and puff at the fire, attempting to blow it out. “No-- no that’s not right. I don’t have that kind of power.”

“Yennefer said that it might be because you were… upset.”

He gets to his feet, swaying a little as he takes a step away from Eric and Geralt. The wind picks up again outside, screaming at the door. “Why are you telling me this?” He whispers, the sour stench of his fear starting to fill the room. The fire roars as the hot air battles the cold that tries to force its way down the chimney and dominate the flames.

“Because we need you to fix it,” Geralt slips his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the shield.

“Why wouldn’t you ask Yennefer to fix it?” 

“We did,” Eric slowly stands up, keeping his hands raised and visible in a placating gesture, “She said it had to be you. Something about how your magic is resistant to anyone else’s and the curse is too powerful for her to break alone.”

Jaskier flinches visibly at the use of the word curse and Geralt mentally swears, fingers tightening in his pocket. The bard shakes his head, backed up against the wall with his arms tightly wrapped around himself. The cabin is shuddering with the force of the blizzard, gales shrieking and snow forcing its way through slivers in the walls, cracks in the glass, the space under the door; anywhere it can get in there are tiny flurries.

“I-I can’t, Geralt,” he whimpers, “I don’t know  _ how.” _

“Sure you can, I know you can!”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! I don’t know how! I should never have stayed here, I should have tried harder to hide. This is all my fault,” Jaskier moans, hands slipping to his hair to grip and tug at the shaggy locks.

“Jaskier, you need to calm down,” Geralt tries, “This is how everything started in the first place.”

“Geralt,” Eric snaps, “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m only telling him the truth.”

A high whine rips free of Jaskier’s throat as he hunches in on himself, pressing the heels of his palms into his temples and shaking his head hard and fast, “This is all my fault, gods this is all my fault. I can’t fix it and it’s all my fucking fault, oh  _ gods.” _

“Jaskier,  _ Jaskier, _ I need you to take deep breaths,” Eric takes a step forward. It’s so similar to the first time this happened that Geralt already has the shield halfway up in preparation as Jaskier throws his hands down from his hair, magic whipping out wildly from them.

“You need to  _ LEAVE ME ALONE!” _ Jaskier screams in anguish.

The shield unfolds around Eric and Geralt and the untamed chaos smashes into it, knocking them both backwards and onto the ground. It ricochets off of the shield, most of it heading for the walls and tearing down the rotting wood. One bolt strikes Jaskier.

It throws him back against the wall and he crumples to the ground as the storm wails and surges into the open cabin. The fire is extinguished, plunging them all into darkness, and the frozen air stings their noses and burns their eyes as the heat is sucked away into twilit day. Geralt becomes aware of shouting, barely able to hear it over the shrieking wind, as Eric’s hand is shoved into his face.

“--a get Jaskier out of here! Use the beacon Yennefer gave you, I’ll get him!”

Geralt grips Eric’s outstretched hand and lets his counterpart haul him to his feet before hurrying to the bard’s side. He’s barely able to make out their silhouettes, even just ten feet away, so he focuses on the task given to him as he pulls out the small glass sphere. He can’t even see the white mist in the sphere through the swirling snow, so he just crushes it in his hand and hopes for the best, almost relishing the satisfying crunch he can feel the glass make in his fingers.

Eric is back at his side, his thick coat wrapped around Jaskier who he has held in his arms, as he bounces on his toes to keep himself warm as the bitter cold bites and tugs at them, demanding the heat of their slow beating hearts. They don’t bother trying to speak over the storm, and a few moments later a portal opens directly in front of them and Yennefer steps through holding a lantern to light their way. She waves them to her portal and they stumble through, Geralt only barely holding down the bile that rises in his throat as they enter the clearing they left only a few hours before.

Yennefer quickly snaps the portal shut once they’re through and the snow settles without the harsh winds to carry it. Tómas is perched upon a rock nearby, a book open on his lap and his head cocked curiously as he watches them. “Is Jaskier okay?” 

“He-- when we got there he was nearly frozen through,” Eric explains quickly, “He panicked again when we tried to tell him about the magic winter--”

“You’ve got a really jumpy Jaskier,” Geralt mutters, brushing the snow off of his shoulders and unfreezing his hands by rubbing them together.

“You’d be jumpy too if you were used like a fucking lab rat,” Eric snarls, “You’ve had a lot of things to say about everything, but have you ever experienced even a fraction of what he’s gone through?”

“I--”

“Save your fucking breath,” Yennefer interrupts him, “It doesn’t matter if you have, this isn’t a fucking suffering pissing contest. We’re not about to whip out our dicks to see who has the biggest pain boner, alright? Right now we need to  _ focus. _ Keep it together, Geralt,” she commands, glaring at Eric. She then turns that dangerous look on Geralt, “And you better keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you, yeah?”

Geralt shuffles his feet and plants his hands on his hips as he glares at the ground. He’s fully aware that he looks like a petulant child, but it doesn’t feel wrong to be angry right now. This Jaskier has nearly gotten them killed  _ twice _ because he’s so prone to panic. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, nodding slightly; both to signal to Yennefer that he heard her but also to himself as he recognizes that this Jaskier has experienced things he can only have nightmares about. Even the little bit Eric has told him is enough to inspire fear in his own heart.

“Alright. Now, tell me what happened.”

Eric explains how Jaskier lost control again and caused another surge of chaos, how the shield Yennefer gave Geralt deflected the magic and it, instead, struck Jaskier in the chest. How Jaskier has yet to wake up again, the bard laying limp in Eric’s arms. “And there’s his hair.”

“I know Jaskier is absurdly vain about his hair, Geralt, but how is that important right now?”

“It wouldn’t be, if it weren’t turning white,” he shifts Jaskier so the dark hair is on display. A shocking white streak runs through it, smaller ones steadily growing out and changing the color of chestnut to pure white. Yennefer hums, almost a growl, and gently touches the back of her fingers to Jaskier’s forehead.

“Cold,” she says definitively, “If I didn’t know better then I’d say he’s frozen himself. As it is, I can’t know for sure without my workshop.”

“What does that mean? That he’s frozen himself?” 

Yennefer looks at Eric pityingly, “He’ll slowly become colder and colder as he freezes until he turns to solid ice.”

“You can fix him, though, can’t you?” Geralt asks, glancing at the unnaturally still bard.

She presses her crimson lips into a thin line, “Possibly. But again, not without my workshop.”

“Well, then what’s the hold up?” Eric asks with an exasperated noise, “You just said he’s  _ dying, _ Yen, yet we’re standing around with our thumbs up our asses doing nothing!”

“I can’t portal all of us, you buffoon,” she snaps, “I’ve been doing an awful lot of that today and it’s exhausted my chaos. I can portal myself, Tómas, and Jaskier, but if I bring the two of you along with as well I won’t have enough energy to even try to begin healing that idiot.”

“So do that!”

“Would you stop hollering at me like a damned gorilla?”

“I’m worried! I want Jaskier safe!”

“I understand, Witcher, but you can’t just  _ shout _ at me and hope that’ll make things go faster!”

As they argue and snipe back and forth, Geralt feels the ground shudder beneath his feet. It’s faint, just the slightest tremor, but his medallion hums in time with it. He frowns and looks at the ground, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. It happens again a moment later, his medallion lurching against his chest. 

“You’re impossible to talk to!”

“Well we’re  _ still _ just standing around here, Yennefer, I don’t know what you want me to--”

“SHUT UP!” Geralt roars, getting everyone’s attention, “Do you feel that?”

Yennefer wears a pinched expression as she crosses her arms, waiting for whatever it is Geralt’s pointed out to her. She opens her mouth, about to complain, when the earth trembles again, more forcefully this time. Eric staggers, tightening his hold on Jaskier as he regains his balance and looks around wildly, Yennefer placing her hand on his arm and taking a step closer to him. Geralt takes a deep breath and his heart plummets.

It’s followed him.

“Fuck,” Geralt hisses, drawing his silver sword, “We need to move. Now.”

“Why? What is it?” Yennefer demands, Eric’s luminous eyes turning on him as well.

“It’s a monster. Nothing you’ll have ever encountered before.”

“So how do we kill it then?” Eric shifts Jaskier, cradling the bard so that his head rests in the crook of Eric’s shoulder.

“We don’t.”

Yennefer opens her mouth to argue when a booming screech fills the air, shaking the trees and reverberating through their skulls. Geralt claps his hands over his ears and Eric covers Jaskier’s, grimacing against the piercing sound while Yennefer gasps and closes her eyes, covering her ears as well. The echoes of the roar bounce back from the Blue Mountains and Geralt, almost hysterically, wonders if Vesemir can hear the terrible sound from Kaer Morhen.

“We need to get Jaskier somewhere safe,” Eric says, the moment the sound from the monster has eased enough to be spoken over, “He can’t be in the line of fire.”

“I’m telling you, we can’t fight that thing,” Geralt shakes his head, flexing his fingers on the pommel of his sword, “Not expecting to win anyway. The Watcher is too strong.”

“‘The Watcher’,” Yennefer’s sharp eyes dart to him, “Why is it called that?”

“Because it’s been watching me and Ciri, maybe my Jaskier too, I’m not sure. It follows us through the universes. We don’t know why--” he’s had a few thoughts as to why that he hopes desperately none are true, “--but it was created by our Stregobor.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” She asks angrily.

Geralt scowls, “I didn’t think I’d be here long enough for it to find me again!”

“That’s not an excuse--”

“We don’t have  _ time _ for this!” Eric shouts over them, “Yennefer, where’s the nearest town?”

She splutters for a moment before gesturing vaguely, “About ten leagues that way. Why?”

“Can you portal me, Jaskier, and Tómas there?”

Her eyes narrow as she figures out his plan and gives him a nod, “I’ll portal you into the inn. Tómas, dear, you’re going to pay for a room for you and Jaskier, alright?”

Tómas, who has been rather calm about the whole thing aside from a mild paleness to his skin-- but what else would one expect from a child of Yennefer? --hops off of the rock he was sitting on and plods over with a nod, glancing up at Jaskier and Eric and biting his lip, “We’ll most likely need ten gold pieces and perhaps some coppers as well. Do they accept ducats here?”

“No, but good job thinking about potential alternate currency,” Yennefer praises him and pulls a bag of coin from her pocket, dropping it into his palm. Tómas smiles at her and puts it away as she ruffles his hair with a tender look before stepping back so that she can open a portal. She extends her hand and the snow flurries up with leaves and soil, creating a gray circle whorling through the air and displaying the interior of an inn just beyond. Tómas darts through, hurrying to the innkeeper and passing several coins across the counter to the startled-looking ginger man. 

Eric follows with Jaskier cradled tightly to his chest, trailing closely behind the child as they bustle up the stairs. Geralt looks around, the air eerily still and silent save for the gentle whooshing of the portal. He can not hear, nor see, the Watcher-- but every hair on his body stands on end. His flesh pimples as static dances along it, the foul scent of rot permeating the air. Geralt’s grip tightens on the pommel of his sword, and he reaches into his pocket again for the shield, wondering if it will help.

“One time use only, Geralt,” Yennefer says apologetically, and he nods, withdrawing his hand from his pocket.

His chest tightens as he recalls, yet again, the identity of the monster. This horrible Brobdingnagian abomination, flayed and fettered and festering in mind and body, its magic capable of the destruction of creation itself: rending apart worlds at seams that never existed before-- wrenching open the knitted cable of reality and leaving it too ragged to be darned back together-- this beast, how it could possibly be  _ Jaskier… _ it tears at his heart and absconds him of the very breath he so desperately drags past the aching lump in his throat. He’s done his best not to think about it, to be ignorant to this wretched knowledge, be blind to the identity of the beast during the time he’s spent here; but it’s just not possible anymore, not with the Watcher’s presence looming ever closer.

Yennefer glances over at him, violet eyes keen and knowing as she watches him partake in the breathing exercises of a bard to calm the thundering of his heart and the stuttering of his breath. To conduct himself in such a manner is both a kindness and a torture, reminding him once more of the man he has lost but allowing him a pleasant memory that he can revisit again and again. The crunching of snow beneath Eric’s boot as the witcher steps back through the portal pulls Geralt from his maudlin thoughts, and he takes a deep breath in through his nose to let out slowly through pursed lips. 

“What can you tell us about this monster?” Eric asks as he unsheathes his own silver sword, Yennefer letting the portal fall shut behind him and stepping closer as well. She looks ashy, shadows starting to form beneath her eyes that snap with fiery determination as she flexes her fingers and sparks snap between them. Geralt looks at one and then the other, glancing in the direction the Watcher’s shriek had come from and slowly nods, twisting his own sword to loosen his wrist.

“It’s fuckall big, taller than anything you’ll have ever seen before. Legs are sharp and strong and it has six of them, three fingers on each leg. Its saliva is acidic, so don’t let it touch you, and it has magic. It can create illusions as well as consume the very fabric of reality.”

Yennefer scoffs, crossing her arms as she arches one perfect eyebrow, “Nothing can do that.”

“This thing can,” Geralt says, and the gravity in his somber voice must be enough to convince her as her posture slackens and her lips turn down.

“Anything else we should know?” Eric’s eyes are watching the top of the treeline. 

_ It’s a Jaskier. _ “We can’t kill it,” Geralt says quietly.

“Not possible or don’t want to?” 

“Neither.” He surprises himself with his honesty. Since finding out that that  _ thing _ is some twisted and warped version of his bard, his animosity towards it has dramatically decreased as his thoughts have turned towards how to  _ help  _ the creature. 

If he even can.

The thundering of the Watcher’s footsteps alerts them to its rapid approach, the beast having figured out where Geralt is and making a beeline for him as its horrendous scream fills the air. They all cover their ears once again, Eric only just barely retaining his grip on his sword as his fingers slacken. The edges of Geralt’s vision flickers, the illusion magic pressing at his mind and attempting to sway his perception, but he’s gotten familiar enough with the monster’s magic to fight back and hold together the fractures that splinter through his memory. It shrieks again, directly overhead.

The Watcher is here.

Geralt looks up as his heart thunders in his chest. He can’t just leave, even as his instincts wail at him to use the beacon, summon a portal, disappear from this land forever. His fingers twitch, itching for the pendant that hangs around his neck, the jewels of the butterfly glittering upon his breast beside the gleaming silver of the wolf medallion he’s proudly worn for a century. The piercing white eyes of the Watcher glare back at him, and he’s shaken to his core to recognize the being. Its physical form remains exactly the same, and yet Geralt can tell that this is Jaskier. A distorted and gnarled form of his bard. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer says faintly, and both Geralt and Eric look over at her. She looks pale, bronze skin ashen against the pitch of her hair and the vibrance of her eyes. Eyes that gaze upon the Watcher in horror and disgust, “Geralt… that thing  _ is _ Jaskier.”

“ _ A _ Jaskier,” he corrects but it falls on deaf ears as Eric instantly lays down his sword, dropping it into the snow.

“I won’t harm him.”

Geralt is torn. He understands where they’re coming from, he really does, but he’s also seen this thing tear through universes to chase them down. Seen it destroy millions of lives in an instant, kill thousands of people with little more than a thought, torture hundreds with its scream. “If you won’t fight it then you have to run and I’ll try to draw its attention out of the universe.”

Yennefer looks over at him sharply, “And how do you suppose you’ll do that?”

“This pendant has had plenty of time to recharge its magic, if my Jaskier were in this universe it would have told me by now.”

“So you’ll, what, open a portal to the next universe and hope it follows you?”

Geralt nods, “I don’t like it any more than you but that’s all I can do if we’re not going to attack it.”

“I’m not going to attack  _ Jaskier!” _ Eric shouts and the Watcher’s patience runs thin. It screeches and jabs one leg forward. Geralt and Eric dive away from each other as its fingers dig deep into the ground that explodes in a spray of ice and snow. 

Geralt’s eyes meet Yennefer’s as he rolls back to his feet. “A necessary risk.”

Her eyes harden and she nods, air crackling as chaos jumps to her fingertips. As the Watcher rears back again, she throws up her hands. A tornado of fire bursts from her palms. The Watcher screams as the inferno scorches its gray skin, boiling and blistering it. The Watcher’s other foot comes down near Geralt, and he raises his sword against it. Hacking and slashing at the fingers until the beast is oozing black ichor onto the steaming snow. The Watcher drops open its gaping maw as it inhales, torso growing with the air that enters its massive lungs, and Geralt jumps away.

“Cover your ears!” He shouts, slapping his hands over his ears just as the Watcher bellows. Even with his ears covered, he sees terrible omens of death. His own body, limbless in the snow as blood saturates the crimson ground. Ciri, split in twain, viscera spilling from her open stomach. Jaskier, pinned to the ground and shattered into a million pieces, carried away on the callous wind. 

To his left, Eric cries out, the muffled sound jarring enough to snap Geralt from the illusions created before him and his gaze darts to the side. The witcher is sprinting towards the Watcher, hand outstretched and eyes unseeing of the pool of black saliva bubbling on the ground. Geralt hesitates for only a moment. He uncovers his ears and darts forward, jumping over the lifeless bodies of Eskel and Lambert, ignoring the pleading cries of Vesemir as his father begs for death. 

He dives and tackles Eric to the ground. They roll through the snow and Geralt’s back bends around a tree far enough for him to feel an aggressive  _ pop! _ and pain sears through him as he howls. Eric scrambles to his feet just in time to see Yennefer get knocked off of hers. The Watcher tossing her aside like a ragdoll. Geralt tries to get up but the agony in his back keeps him confined to the ground, only able to watch as Eric runs for the nearest sword. 

The Watcher spots the weapon first and bears down on it, snapping the metal beneath one of its fingers and grinding the sword into the dirt. Yennefer struggles to get up again but the Watcher bats Eric to the ground and pins the sorceress by stepping on her arm. The bones shatter audibly and she screams. She reaches up with her other hand and grabs onto the Watcher. Her teeth are grit as she forces wild chaos directly into the monster. 

Its form ripples and shivers, the Watcher shrieking and stumbling back a few steps as it tears apart and then pulls back together again. It’s with fury that the Watcher jabs out at Yennefer again, hitting her hard enough to knock her unconscious. Geralt cries out and the beast turns its attention back onto him.

“Jaskier!” Eric shouts, climbing back to his feet again. Blood drips from his temple, white hair stained with it, and snow dusts his battered armor. “Jaskier, stop! Stop it!”

The Watcher freezes for half of a second. 

“Please, you have to stop!”

A shudder rips through the Watcher as its head thrashes from side to side before it throws its head back to scream. It's a horrible cry, different from all the others; this ululation is a loss of self-- the grief of living death-- and Geralt feels tears spring to his eyes as the Watcher snarls and lashes out. It knocks Eric to the ground and raises a leg to impale him on one of its razor sharp fingers. 

A portal opens, shaking and snapping with barely controlled chaos. Jaskier runs through it. His hair is made of the snow that covers the trees, fingers bluer than his eyes. The Watcher shrieks as it brings its foot down.

Jaskier bellows in response, the cry warring with that of the Watcher as his boots slide across the ground. He throws his arms out in front of Eric, magic rippling through his body. The Watcher’s fingers collide with his torso.

There’s a cacophonous  _ BANG!  _ and their eyes are forced closed by the shockwave of magic that explodes. The sound rolls along the peaks of the Blue Mountains, a rumbling echo that fades into the silence of day. A muffled sob breaks the peace.

Geralt opens his eyes. 

The Watcher is gone. The sky is clear and blue and the only evidence of the monster’s presence is in the torn earth as Yennefer heals herself and Eric is standing before a statue. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

“Jaskier,” Eric whimpers, gloved hands coming up to caress the ice that the bard’s face has become. Yennefer determinedly doesn’t look at Jaskier as she hurries to Geralt’s side, using what he suspects is nearly the last of her magic to heal his back enough for him to stand up again. Only then does she turn her gaze upon the frozen man, and Geralt hears her breath shudder as they approach. 

“Geralt…” Yennefer breathes and Eric stiffens. 

He turns to her, eyes wild and motions frantic as he grabs at her shoulder to pull her closer, “You can fix him! You-you said if you took him to your workshop-- but we don’t have that-- we can move him! You can fix him, Yen, you  _ have to _ fix him.”

She gently takes his hand off of her shoulder to hold it between her own, wearing a pained expression, “Geralt, I  _ can’t. _ It’s too late, I’m so sorry.”

Shock, followed by disbelief and then the anger that accompanies grief twists his face into a scowl as he rips his hand away, “No! You said you could, you have to, Yen! He’s the most important person in the world to me, you have to help me!”

“I can’t, Geralt.” Tears are dripping down her cheeks and Geralt can feel his own heart shredding as he stares at the statue of Jaskier, the bard’s arms outstretched to protect his witcher. His face forever frozen into an expression of terrified determination.

_ “Please, _ Yennefer. You have to  _ try.” _

“Geralt--”

“You did it last time!”

“Last time was a  _ spell,” _ Yennefer’s voice cracks, “This was just wild magic, uncontrolled chaos. There’s nothing I can do.”

Eric  _ howls. _ He drops to his knees with his arms around Jaskier’s waist, head bowed and shoulders shuddering as wailing sobs rip free. Yennefer turns away, taking solace in Geralt’s presence as she hides her face in his shoulder and he wraps his arms around her. The four of them--  _ three _ of them-- standing in the empty clearing. The bitter grief for their fallen companion choking the air.

“Please, Jaskier,” Eric chokes out between sobs, “Please, don’t be gone. I can’t do this alone. I love you.”

Geralt’s eyes are turned to the ground in respect when he catches a glimpse of motion in his peripheral. Raising his gaze, his eyes widen as the golden handfasting ribbon flutters in the breeze, slowly turning back to fabric from the ice it was frozen into. Next comes Jaskier’s pale skin, blue veins visible beneath the thin membrane of his wrist. Geralt nudges Yennefer, urging her to look as the ice recedes up his arm, melting away from his torso, turning back into the skin of his face.

Eric looks up sharply at the first thump of Jaskier’s heart as the bard’s eyes flutter shut and he crumples into the witcher’s arms. “ _ Jaskier,” _ he breathes. In joy or fear, it doesn’t matter as Eric gathers his husband close to his chest and openly sobs once more with relief. The snow that was at Jaskier’s feet has melted, warm magic humming through the air and undoing the curse.

“I thought it was a myth,” Yennefer says softly, her eyes wide as she watches the snow dance away on the flurrying breeze.

Geralt looks over at her, “What was?”

“True love.”

He turns his gaze back on Jaskier and his counterpart, face softening into a shy smile as he idly wonders about what could be. “Apparently not.” If what he and Jaskier have here is  _ true love, _ a love so powerful it can undo cursed magic, then maybe--

“Geralt!” Ciri’s bright voice chirps from behind him and he jumps, whirling around in surprise. One of her portals is open behind them, her head poked through it, “I’ve been searching for you. Come on, I’ve a good feeling about this next…” she looks around and her smile falls to confusion, “Am I interrupting something?”

Geralt opens his mouth to answer but shuts it again, unsure of what his response even should be. Yennefer saves him from replying by placing a hand on his arm, “Not at all, little swallow. Go on now, Geralt, be gone with you.”

“You don’t need my help?” He frowns softly, glancing at Eric and Jaskier over his shoulder.

“I think we can manage,” Yennefer’s eyes are warm as she turns her nose up haughtily, “And really, we’ve one Geralt too many and it’s been grating on my nerves. A single bard-sick witcher is already too much for me to handle, I have no need for a second one.”

Ciri laughs as Geralt flushes with embarrassment, clearing his throat and nodding stiffly. “You’ll be okay, then?”

Eric looks up at him with red eyes and a watery smile as he nods, “I think so. Thank you, for your help.”

Geralt nods and Ciri groans, “Come on, Geralt! I can’t hold this open much longer. You know how much harder these universal portals are.”

“Alright! Alright, I’m coming,” Geralt grouses. He glances back one last time as he steps through the portal, just long enough to see Jaskier rouse and Eric presses a happy kiss to the bard’s forehead. They’ll be okay, he smiles, and the portal shuts behind him.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to recover, a few days at most; and, soon enough, he and Geralt are back at Ban Ard in his dormitory. Shouts awaken them from their slumber, limbs tangled together and the matching golden ribbons on their wrists gleaming softly in the waning light of dawn. Both Geralt and Jaskier are up and on their feet before the second wave of commotion, scrambling for clothes and stumbling, half dressed, out of Jaskier’s room and into the halls of Ban Ard. Students are jabbering and clamoring past one another in various states of dress, all seemingly awoken by the same chaos outside. The soft light of morn suddenly vanishes, plunging the hallway into darkness that causes a few surprised shrieks to echo along the stone until students start speaking spells of light into their palms.

They burst out into the courtyard with the flood of other magical academics, gasps and cries rippling through the crowd. Jaskier frowns, grabbing Geralt’s wrist in his long fingers and pulling the Witcher to his side as he steps away from the stream and closer to the exterior walls.

“What is it, Geralt? What’s got everyone so afraid?”

Geralt’s golden eyes are turned towards the heavens, pupils narrowed into tiny slits as he gapes. “There are no stars.”

Above them, what had been lightening from a deep navy to a gentle pink, is now a pitch black sky devoid of any of the pinpricks of light that make up the vast expanses of the universe. As Geralt looks out into the darkness, into the blank canvas painted liberally with nothing, into the depths of the void of space, he feels watched. Something is looking back.

“No stars?” Jaskier sounds concerned, “No  _ stars? _ I can’t look through you currently, not with all the chaos around-”

“I mean there are no stars. Nothing at all. Not even the light of the sun touches the horizon,” Geralt looks over at Jaskier, watching as the bard turns his unseeing eyes heavenward as well, “What do you mean, ‘all the chaos’? You’ve never had difficulty seeing through my eyes in Ban Ard.”

He shakes his head, “Not the chaos of  _ us. _ I mean there’s something… else. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach turn and like I can’t quite get a deep enough breath. It feels… it feels  _ rotten.  _ Like the chaos is decaying.” Jaskier hesitates before adding, “It feels like Stregobor’s magic, but not quite.” 

“Stregobor? But he’s-”

“Gone now, I know. I remember hearing the news of his cowardly actions as well as you, Geralt.”

“Then how could it be-”

“I don’t  _ know. _ I can’t explain but I’d know his magic anywhere.”

Geralt looks at him for a long few moments before slipping his hand into Jaskier’s and squeezing as he nods. He opens his mouth to speak again when there’s an earth shattering roar, like the screams of cold mental being rent in two. Both of them cover their ears, cowering closer to the stone and turning into each other as the sound makes them relive their darkest memories, the worst moments of their lives, and also brings to mind new tortures.

Jaskier split in twain, his ribs wrenched open and his heart ripped from his chest. Jaskier, huddled in the corner and not reacting to Geralt’s emergence through the trapdoor in the tower. Jaskier, teeth painted crimson and blood staining his cheeks like tears as gaping wounds fill his eye sockets. Jaskier, afraid and horrified as he cradles a hand to his chest, the hand that nearly killed Geralt with magic. Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier,  _ Jaskier-- _

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s hands,  _ pale and painted red as blood drips down his wrists--  _ no. Jaskier’s hands are on his cheeks, lighting patting the right side of his face to snap him out of his trance. Pale blue eyes are directed towards him, the irises fading with the passage of time, and Geralt raises his hands to cover Jaskier’s own. “It’s just an illusion, it’s magic, it’s not real.”

Geralt takes a shuddering breath and nods, sliding his hands along Jaskier’s arms to pull him by the shoulders into Geralt’s chest as he presses their foreheads together. He inhales deeply, Jaskier’s scent of petrichor and oak and the sting of chaos filling his nose. The bard gives him a moment to collect himself before rubbing Geralt’s cheekbone with his thumb and pressing a gentle kiss to the witcher’s lips.

“We need to move,” he says softly, “It must be the Watcher come back to finish the job.” Jaskier didn’t remember any of what happened right before he froze, but Geralt had filled him in, told him of the horrors of the Watcher.

Geralt’s heart twists and his stomach drops. If it’s the monster, if it’s that mangled version of  _ Jaskier… _ “You go, I have to stay.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s a monster… Jaskier, I’m a Witcher.”

“Well, if you’re staying to foolishly fight something that vanished the  _ stars, _ then I’m staying to make sure you don’t die!”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest before closing it again. It wouldn’t do any good, Jaskier wouldn’t listen to him anyway. He never did even before he had magic, and now that his bard is nearly a fully-trained sorcerer he’s bound to follow Geralt into the fight. Another ear splitting scream shatters the tension between them as they flinch and look up. Towering above them is the Watcher, spindly legs thumping solidly upon the earth with each thundering step, and blank white eyes narrow in on them.

“Jaskier, my swords,” Geralt instinctively pushes his husband behind him and in the roiling of the rancid chaos all around them he feels the tug of Jaskier’s own as he summons Geralt’s weapons. Geralt takes the familiar sheathes and straps them across his chest, drawing his silver blade and sinking into a readied position. The courtyard has emptied, aside from them, and the earth trembles as the tips of three fingers crash against the soil in front of them.

Jaskier murmurs an incantation and ice spreads across the ground, crackling over the grass and climbing the beast’s skin. Geralt surges forward, sword in hand and arcing up to slash at the monster’s immobilized leg. It shrieks and the ice shatters as it wrenches its foot from the trap. As it does so, the ice and earth beneath its appendages turns to dust, floating away on the breeze and leaving gaping voids in its wake.

Geralt stumbles back as the ground beneath his feet crumbles into nothing and Jaskier’s face twists in confusion as he feels the chaos throb at the destruction. “What the  _ fuck _ was that?”

“I-I-” Geralt blinks with wide eyes, “I don’t know! The ground, it’s just-”

“Just  _ what,  _ Geralt?”

“It’s gone!”

Jaskier snarls as the Watcher unhinges its dripping maw to roar again, black saliva falling onto the grass and shriveling the green blades with a sickening hiss. He steps forward, planting his foot firmly and sweeping his hands upwards before clenching his fists. Rock shoots out of the ground and arches above the beast, raining down upon it and solidifying into a tomb. 

It only holds the creature for a moment before this rock, too, turns to dust. The space in the earth that the stone emerged from becomes a trench that drops into nothing. The beast turns its white gaze onto Geralt, making contact. The chaos writhes and screams around them as dozens of kikimora appear from the dust in the air, all surging towards them at once.

“Fuck!” 

Jaskier’s head snaps towards Geralt and he scowls, “I can’t  _ fucking _ see, Geralt! You have to tell me what’s going on!” In his distraction, one of the Watcher’s grouping of fingers shoots out, wrapping around Jaskier’s waist. He shouts as he’s lifted into the air, grabbing the mottled gray appendage at his torso and sending a wave of pure chaos through it. 

The skin beneath his palms curdles and cracks as it boils and flays, releasing a putrid odor into the air. Jaskier’s stomach lurches and he screams and writhes in the tight grip to get away from the exposed, rotting flesh. What should be pink is an ugly green and black, white maggots squirming and wriggling the spasming muscle. Beetles and worms skitter and slither through the oozing, rancid flesh. The meat shudders and shakes as the long antennae of an enormous centipede emerge, followed by the brown exoskeleton that glistens with fetid blood.

Jaskier wails in horror as he feels his skin itch and prickle beneath the touch of hundreds of feet as the bugs swarm on him. They run up his arms and slip beneath the cuffs of his doublet and into the sleeves of his shirt. He lets out a sob as his heart pounds and he breaks out into a cold sweat. He lets out a strangled scream as he grits his teeth, the long, hairy legs of a tarantula pressing between his lips and forcing itself into his cheek.

He chokes on Geralt’s name as his eyes roll wildly, searching the darkness for an escape from this torment. Jaskier shoves at the rotting flesh and his hands sink into it, making him gasp in horror as it squelches between his fingers. The tarantula takes the loosening of his jaw as its opportunity to shove past his teeth and Jaskier retches. They’re all over him, the thousands of legs, the crawling and itching and slithering of insects. They’re on his eyes and in his ears and his mouth and nose and clothes. He feels the world sway, the darkness spinning in a way it shouldn’t be able to as his mind starts to float.

Geralt slices down another kikimora, the beasts swarming him as thoroughly as the bugs swarm Jaskier. He knows they’re all just illusions, but they’re able to cut him just as easily as a real one. He hears Jaskier’s strangled scream and glances up, seeing the bard writhe in the tightening grip of the Watcher. Jaskier’s face is turning purple as his lungs are constricted and he frantically slaps at his arms and face. Geralt ducks as one of the kikimora nearly decapitates him, mind racing. 

He dives out of the center of the kikimora, ducking and weaving between the beasts. Once he’s clear enough, he flips his sword over in his hand and rears back. Like a javelin, Geralt hurls his silver blade at the arm of the Watcher. The sword slices across the junction of the fingers and the Watcher shrieks, dropping Jaskier. The bard plummets to the ground and crumples with a sickening crunch that Geralt can hear even over the cacophony of screams and shrieks and roars.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts. He turns to run to his bard, but a kikimora hits him across the back and knocks him to the ground. Geralt spits grass from his mouth as he lifts his head, eyes widened in horror as the Watcher lowers its gaping maw to the earth and clamps its jaws over Jaskier’s prone body. “ _ NO!” _

There’s nothing he can do but watch as Jaskier is lifted from the ground between the teeth of the Watcher. It jerks its head, tossing his limp form into the air. Jaskier’s skin is slick with the black saliva of the monster, his flesh bubbling and boiling beneath it. 

_ “JASKIER!” _ Geralt howls like a wounded animal as the Watcher’s jaws snap shut on his husband.

He roars a sound of unfettered agony as he pushes himself to his feet. He doesn’t have his silver sword, he doesn’t have his armor, but none of that matters. He doesn’t have Jaskier. 

Geralt rushes forward, drawing his steel blade and slashing at whatever he can reach. He casts Aard, and the Watcher barely moves. He casts Igni and the flesh of its leg catches fire and curdles before going out again. He doesn’t care that this beast is a Jaskier anymore, it’s taken away  _ his _ Jaskier. He casts Axii, desperate for  _ something _ to have an effect, and drops to his knees as he’s bombarded with the thoughts of the Watcher.

_ “You stupid boy, kill him!” _

_ “I won’t! I won’t, I can’t!” _

_ “If you won’t, then I  _ will _!” _

_ “I won’t let you!” _

_ “You’re barely able to control this form, it’s no difficulty to take over.” _

_ “Fuck you!” _

Geralt screams and presses his balled fists to his head as it pounds. He’s disoriented and confused. He doesn’t know what’s going on or who exactly he’s hearing. He thinks one of the voices might be Jaskier’s, if Jaskier’s vocal cords were shredded from days of screaming. His head throbs and aches and he yells through his grit teeth and he tastes blood on his tongue. 

He’s suddenly thrown to the side as one of the Watcher’s limbs knocks him away, slamming the breath out of his lungs. He hears one or three of his ribs crack from the impact and struggles to drag air back into his chest. The Watcher roars, unhinging its jaw even further than before as a long, gray tongue slithers out of its mouth. The wind picks up and becomes a howling gale, trees shuddering and the very foundations of the earth shaking. Dust and debris and detritus is swept up into the air and begins swirling above the Watcher in the starless sky until an enormous portal has formed.

The interior of the portal is a blood red, lightning crackling through it and electrifying the air. A bolt shoots out and hits the ground, making the earth erupt into a geyser of soil and stone. Geralt curls up on his side to protect his head as more lightning zaps down around him. The air singes his skin and curls the ends of his air and with each concussive blast, the earth disappears. It’s sucked up into the portal, leaving behind an endless void in its wake.

Geralt is tired. He’s tired and aching and doesn’t want to get back up again. What’s the point? Jaskier is gone, Ciri can handle herself, Yennefer has Tómas… No one needs him anymore. He can’t defeat this thing. The damn monster is ten times his size. His swords do little more than give its thick skin papercuts. He just wants to stay where he is and let the Watcher gobble him up, just as it did his husband.

A bolt of lightning hits startlingly close to him, shocking him out of his spiral. What is he  _ doing? _ He can’t let this monster get the better of him. He’s Geralt of fucking Rivia. He’s a fucking  _ Witcher. _ Killing monsters is what he does!

Geralt hauls himself back to his feet, picking up his sword and ignoring the creaking of his bones. He can’t give up. He has to try, to fight until the very end.  _ A Witcher doesn’t retire, they just get slow and die. _ Geralt suspects that speed isn’t a factor with this monster, but he’ll try anyway. 

He can’t see the horizon anymore. He can’t see the woods or the hills or the mountains that used to loom in the distance. All he sees are plumes of earth, funnels of soil and stone and foliage being vacuumed into the portal that swirls and crackles and bites above the Watcher. His world is collapsing, becoming nothing before his very eyes. The ground beneath his feet rumbles as he runs forward once more.

Lightning strikes.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


End file.
